


Avete Vos

by AccursedSpatula, Moiraine



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Collars, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccursedSpatula/pseuds/AccursedSpatula, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiraine/pseuds/Moiraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DAII AU. After giving Fenris the lyrium markings, Danarius makes him a gladiator.  He rises swiftly, and is rewarded with wealth, luxury and slaves of his own, including one snarky blond healer from Ferelden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was picked up from a prompt at the DA kink meme, requesting an AU gladiator!Fenris and healer!Anders. Moiraine writes Fenris, I write Anders, and each chapter switches POVs. There's a lot of this fill up on the meme already, and we're archiving it over on AO3.
> 
> Our fill on the kinkmeme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/5307.html?thread=14942907#t14942907

The roars of the crowd followed Fenris as he strode down the corridor that descended below the arena. His lips curled in a wide grin as even the thick stone couldn’t drown out the sound. They called and screamed for _him._ It was his skills and his victories that drove thousands to their feet time and again, cheering until their throats were raw. It was he who gave them the spectacle they desired, the glory the Imperium demanded, and in turn, they _revered_ him.

In the rooms below the arena, other gladiators—both winners and losers—were gathering, being collected by their lanistae or owners’ representatives and guards. Fenris slipped through the milling crowd easily, the others instinctively parting for him as he made his way toward Danarius’s guards. There were calls and shouts from the others as he passed, and he acknowledged them with a tilt of his head or wave of his hand. His opponents had fought well today, and the crowd hadn’t called for the death of any of them. Fenris was quite pleased with that. The waste of a good fighter galled him, especially when they already had so little chance against him.

His grin faded as he approached the guards. While fighting in the arena, he felt alive. His heart pounded, blood pumped through his veins, excitement and danger combining in a heady thrill that was more potent than any wine. And back at Danarius’s villa, there was luxury and comfort that most would never see, free or not. There he could relax, tended by capable slaves, and indulge himself. It was only this he hated, having to hand over his weapon and be escorted back home. After all, as laughable as the idea was, it would be a horrific embarrassment if Danarius’s prized fighter somehow managed to escape.

But hand over the blade he did, hilt first so that the guards couldn’t misconstrue any of his actions. That had happened once and Danarius had been most displeased at having to replace his guards. Fenris smiled darkly as the man holding his greatsword quickly stepped away. Fools. As if he needed six feet of silverite to slay them. He lived an easier, more opulent life than they ever would, yet everyone feared that _he_ would run.

The guards escorted him outside to the waiting litter. He stepped in, seating himself on the plush cushions and holding still as one of the guards affixed a small manacle to his ankle. It carried a curious and rare enchantment, designed to stop his ability to phase through the metal. Without it, any fetter, any chain would be no more proof against his abilities than ones made of wax. Secured, he waited as the guard signaled the slaves who bore the litter. The four large, human men grabbed the poles of the litter, lifting it and him easily, and set off for Danarius’s estate at a smooth, fast pace, the guards keeping pace at a jog beside him.

The trip took some time. Even with the guards clearing people out of the way, Danarius’s estate was set close to the edge of the city, away from the unwashed masses. By the time the slaves set the litter down so he could be released and get out, Fenris ached from the ride almost as much from the fighting. He rolled his shoulders and his head, trying to loosen the muscles. Today’s matches had been good, and he bore few injuries. So a bath, a meal and a massage were the first needs to be attended to, and then he might seek out the healing magic of Claudius, the crippled older mage that Danarius kept to see to his health.

As usual, the guards walked him toward his wing of the villa and locked him in before going off to inform Danarius of the day’s results. Fenris’s successes in the arena had earned his master an immense amount of power and money, and in return, Danarius had begun gifting him with better living conditions. It had culminated in his life now. An entire wing of the villa—complete with courtyards, gardens, living areas and baths—for his own private use, the finest foods and wines, lovely, skilled slaves of his own to see to all of his needs and desires. If one overlooked the barred doors and windows, no one would ever know that he was a slave himself.

Before he could get any of the things he wanted right now, however, he needed to be rid of his armor. He walked to a small room where Tacitus, a young elven boy of perhaps ten years old waited to remove his armor. Standing still, Fenris waited while the boy’s nimble fingers undid the straps that held his gauntlets and greaves on, and then the large, belt-like piece that protected his abdomen and groin. Like all gladiators, his armor was designed to protect a few key areas, while leaving the rest of him—and his markings—exposed for the enjoyment of the crowd.

The boy settled on a small stool to begin cleaning and polishing the armor, and Fenris left him to his task with a fond ruffle of his hair. His bath came next. He stepped into the tub of warm, fragrant water, and allowed Ilaria, one of his female slaves, to bathe him. When she was done, he stepped from the bath, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stretched out on a high table set along one wall of the bathing chamber. As always, Brandr was there, stripped to the waist and ready with a bottle of scented oil, already warming some between his large palms. Fenris groaned as the large man began to massage his limbs. Fenris truly liked Brandr, and not just for the way he turned his bones to jelly. There was a gentleness to the giant in all things that made Fenris seek him out when he was troubled.

“Do I need the healer?” Fenris mumbled as Brandr turned him over on the cloth covered table.

“Hmmm.” Brandr’s deep voice rumbled in his chest. “I don’t think so. It appears to mainly be bruising, and you heal fast. If there’s excessive soreness in the morning, then you probably should. Something could be torn that I can’t tell.”

Fenris nodded and waved his hand lazily for Brandr to continue. He was nearly asleep by the time his slave finished, and there was a quiet mirth in the blond man’s voice as he asked, “Do you need help getting up?”

Fenris shook his head and ran a hand through his now dry white locks. “I think I can manage.”

“Very well. Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine. The night is yours, Brandr.”

Brandr bowed at the waist. “Thank you, Master.”

Hopping down from the table, still clad in only the towel, Fenris went to the small dining room that was his and his alone where he knew a meal would be waiting. And indeed, Septima and Isidora were waiting for him, filling a plate and goblet of wine for him even as he seated himself. They waited quietly off to the side while he ate, stepping forward as needed to fetch him something and refill his goblet. When he was done, he looked the two women over with a curious eye before finally beckoning to the blonde Septima. The elven girl took his hand, smiling up at him with violet eyes peeking up at him from under lowered lashes and he led her to his bedchamber.

Once the door was closed behind them, Septima slipped her tunic from her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor around her feet, revealing all of her lithe, pale loveliness. Fenris grinned, and with a simple tug, sent his towel down in a similar fashion. Then he stepped up to her, and as her arms wound around his neck and her lips pressed against his, he bore her down onto his bed.

~*~

A strangled cry woke Fenris just after dawn. Never a very deep sleeper, he started awake, sitting up quickly, his markings activating to fill the darkened room with eerie, blue light. Beside him, Septima also woke, and then flinched away from his glowing form with a small whimper. Fenris didn’t spare her a glance. He was kind to his slaves, treated them well, but most were uncomfortable with the displays of his power. He refused to coddle them about it. They didn’t need it to perform their duties.

He slipped from the bed, snatching a pair of trousers set out on a low bench and slipping them on. His markings faded as he tied the drawstring and eased the door open, seeking the source of the cry and trying to determine if there were any immediate threats in the hallway leading to his quarters. After several seconds of straining to hear something in the silence, Fenris stepped through the doorway. His first thought was to seek out the slave quarters, as there was really no other place there could be trouble.

His suspicion was confirmed when he’d barely stepped into the central room with the pool when Ilaria came running up the hallway. She spotted him immediately and hurried to him, her hands twisting together in agitation as she gave him a quick half bow. “Oh, M-Master, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have woken you, but N-Nadia was u-upset. It was s-such a shock, and she—”

Fenris cut her off by grabbing her upper arms and shaking her gently. “Slow down. What happened?”

Ilaria nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s Claudius,” she said quietly. “Nadia found him. He’s….”

She trailed off, but Fenris didn’t have to ask. Her pale face and sorrowful expression told him all that he needed to know. He let her go and sprinted toward the small room that the old healer had to himself. Outside the doorway, Nadia was curled on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest. Except for Tacitus, she was the youngest of his slaves, and the newest. While he found her quite fetching—long, wavy auburn hair and large, green elven eyes so similar to his own—she was still quite skittish. He’d only taken her to his bed twice before deciding to wait and give her more time to adjust.

Drustan knelt next to her, patting her back sympathetically. He looked up as Fenris drew closer and stood. Shaking his head, the beads on the ends of his long, fiery red braids clicking, he pulled Nadia to her feet and shooed her off. Then he stepped back and waited for Fenris to enter Claudius’s room before following silently.

Fenris sighed as he looked at the body sprawled on the floor in the center of the room. Ignoring the smell of death—he’d experienced far worse in the arena—he moved to get a better look.

Claudius had been old, and never in very good health. For whatever reason, the mage had only ever mastered healing magic. Without offensive capabilities, he had little worth in Tevinter. He’d also been rebellious in his younger days, resulting in his ankle being broken to hobble him. Danarius had purchased him cheaply to attend to Fenris’s injuries shortly after he began entering the games. While Fenris didn’t like mages, he’d always felt bad for Claudius as he watched the poor bastard hobble around the villa. He’d needed little, asked for even less, and Fenris had pitied him. The old man had tended to him, taught him to read, and in thanks, Fenris had given him his own room and use of the women, though he didn’t think the mage had been able to do much more than give them a slap and a tickle.

Now the man lay on his back, face contorted in a rictus of pain and one hand clasped loosely over his chest. “Venhedis,” he muttered, and rubbed his forehead. “Drustan, go get Brandr. Claudius needs to be moved and Danarius informed. Use a sheet from the bed and bring him to the main door. I’ll meet you there.”

“Aye,” Drustan nodded and left.

Fenris dropped to one knee beside the body, and reached out to close Claudius’s unseeing brown eyes. “Sleep well, my friend,” he said quietly and straightened the old man’s limbs into a somewhat more dignified pose.

Drustan and Brandr came back in, and Fenris left so that they could attend to the grim task. He went to the main door, passed along the message to the ever-present guard, and went off in search of some wine. A half-bottle left from last night’s dinner was quickly found and he drank a few long swallows straight from the bottle. A muscle in his back twitched as he reached to set the bottle back down, and he grimaced, reaching back to touch the muscle just under his right shoulder blade.

What a mess.

Danarius arrived later that day and swept into the courtyard where Fenris sat reading quietly. He frowned slightly to see the book in his slave’s hands as Fenris marked his place and set it down on a small table. Fenris rose to his feet, hiding his smile as Danarius seated himself and accepted a goblet of wine from Isidora, who had set down her lute to serve him. His master didn’t care for the fact that Fenris could read, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had grudgingly provided books for Fenris after Fenris prevailed at a particularly grueling contest.

“I am told your mage died,” he said without preamble as Fenris reseated himself.

“This morning,” Fenris confirmed, accepting his own glass of wine from Isidora. This was a close to being Danarius’s equal as he would ever get, though the magister was careful to always make sure Fenris knew his place. When Danarius had first carved the lyrium into his flesh, it had been to create an unstoppable bodyguard. But barely a year had passed with Fenris serving in that capacity before a chance comment from another magister had convinced Danarius to enter Fenris in the gladiatorial contests. Fenris had won that first match easily, and the rest was history.

Danarius frowned. “I shall acquire you another, though it may take time. Until I do, you won’t be entering any more games. You’re far too valuable to risk without having a healer on hand. You will continue to train, however.”

Fenris inclined his head in acknowledgement and took a sip of wine, waiting silently for the magister to continue or leave.

His master considered him for a long moment before speaking again. “I’m told you did well yesterday. I am very pleased with you, Fenris. Even with the portion of winnings that, by law, must go to you, you’ve made me one of the wealthiest men in Tevinter. My power has grown many times over, and I may yet still reach higher. Continue to serve me well, and you will find yourself richly rewarded.”

Raising his goblet, Fenris smiled. “Thank you, Master.”

Getting to his feet, Fenris hastily scrambling up so that he didn’t remaining sitting while his master stood, Danarius handed his goblet to Isidora. “Then I will begin the search for your new slave. You’ll be informed when one is found. In the meantime, if you need anything, tell the guards.”

Fenris bowed low as Danarius strode back to the main part of the estate, and then settled back down with his book. A bit more reading, and then he’d get another massage from Brandr. In the absence of a healer, it was the best remedy he had.

He caught the look Isidora flashed him as she settled back on her cushion and took up her lute once more. She was from Rivain, and as exotic for her warm brown skin and eyes and curly black locks as Drustan was for his milk-white Fereldan skin and flame red hair. He smiled at her, watching a slight blush darken her cheeks. Well, perhaps there _were_ other remedies for an aching body that were nearly as good.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Anders had noticed about Tevinter was the heat.

It hit him like a wall as he was dragged from the hold of the ship, a hot, muggy wave that made his skin instantly damp with sweat and sucked any and all energy from him. He was already exhausted and starved, and being paraded about in the heat, stuck in dirty clothes and tangled up in chains, wasn’t helping his situation any.

He followed the handlers with as much effort as he could spare, knowing that giving less meant lashes from a whip or a few fresh bruises. The small gaggle of slaves was led from the belly of the ship that had been their nightmarish home for the past two and a half months, down through the docks of Minrathous to the back end of the slave district.

After a quick inspection to make sure none of them were at the brink of death, they were herded into a wooden pen. Anders was patiently waiting to file in, too weary to be anxious, when he found himself yanked by the iron collar around his neck, pulling him from the group. The handler who had pulled him away from the others held him fast, as if he were expecting the weakened slave to make a run for it in a crowded marketplace.

“I want him sent to auction while he’s still healthy,” someone said, and Anders looked around, trying to match the voice to a face.

A man in a dark blue robe stepped forward, surveying the scrawny man, before turning and motioning for the handler to follow him. Anders glanced over his shoulder at the small group he had become close to in that dark, dank hold. One of them, a girl with mousy brown hair and blue eyes, waved at him, and Anders tried to give her a smile before he was roughly hauled away by his handler.

They brought him up to the front of the market, where the majority of the commotion stemmed from. Anders could see a line of men and women, standing perfectly even with one another, unresisting as finely dressed magisters poked and prodded them. They looked afraid, dirty and confused like Anders was, exchanging fearful glances with one another. One of the women pulled away from a magister’s touch, and Anders heard the snap of a whip followed by a shrill cry.

He cringed, following the man in the blue robe, his handler ever-present behind him, reminding him not to lollygag. They led him to the end of the line, now making the row a dozen total. Anders was a few feet away from a skittish elven girl, one who incessantly stared at the floor. Her robes were that of a Circle mage, and Anders guessed that she must have been in a similar predicament as he was.

It had been escape attempt (or success, in Anders’s book) number seven, sneaking out of Tower after having secreted away enough pieces of templar armor to hide his identity. After the initial escape, he had headed to Gwaren, on the coast, intending to use the confusion of the Blight to sail to the Free Marches, or perhaps all the way to Tevinter, maybe even make his way to the Anderfels. Let the templars try to follow him then.

But he wasn’t the first bright-eyed, naïve apostate to attempt to do so, and he found himself chained in the hold of a ship bound for Minrathous before he even realized what was happening. It was cramped and dark, the stench of death and decay constantly surrounding them, and their numbers thinned significantly during the voyage. Anders had been lucky—he had survived. The other apostate mage, a younger boy, maybe sixteen, had not been so fortunate.

And now the winding thread of fate had placed his feet on a dusty square in the capital of Tevinter, lined up with a handful of other mages who had come from all places and walks of life to end up in chains.

He fiddled with his shackles, trying to scratch the skin beneath them. There were no sores, thankfully, and Anders begrudgingly had to give the Circle credit for that. It was where he had learned to heal, as well as dabbled in other bits of magic. But the healing had kept him alive and fed during the journey, as well a few of the other slaves and crewmembers.

His only friend in the hold had been a lanky, rough girl from the Anderfels, one who he only knew as Tjader. She was tough, defiant, and combined with her poor understanding of anything but the harsh tongue of her homeland, her voyage had been rough. Day in and day out she was beaten, either for a misunderstanding or an altercation. And day after day she lived to keep on fighting, due to Anders’s interventions. She kept him safe from the crewmembers, taking his punishments for him, and he kept her alive to the best of his ability. Despite the lack of actual communication between them, they had developed a nice camaraderie.

Naturally, the crew and the captain were quick to catch on, and both he and poor Tjader were pulled aside. She was beaten, for reasons she didn’t comprehend, until Anders quickly blurted out what had been going on. From then on, Anders wasn’t punished, and he was always fed. A mage—and a healer especially—could fetch a good price at auction, if he were competent.

But Tjader was now in the pen, about to be sold off to some master who hopefully had the patience with her. Anders couldn’t lie to himself, however, and figured the girl would be dead within a month.

He straightened up, arching his back, his limbs aching and his skin pricking from the heat. The blue robed man stood next to one of his own slaves, who held a parasol over him, ensuring that he didn’t overheat. Most of the magisters were accompanied by several slaves themselves, Anders noticed, either to carry parasols and items or to assist with the new purchases.

None of them seemed to pay him much mind. He was the scruffy, bony mage at the end, and he hardly looked like he could stand on his own two feet, let alone cast a spell. Magisters came and went, each giving him no more than a passing glance.

Until an older man with gray hair and a thick, neatly trimmed gray beard approached. He spoke to the man in the blue robe in a flurry of Arcanum, but all Anders could focus on were the man’s ears. They’re so oddly shaped, he thought to himself, fascinated, and still distracted when the magister addressed him.

“You speak common?”

At last, words he could understand. “Yes,” he said, talking still rather unfamiliar. He hadn’t done much of it since he left Gwaren, mostly listening to Tjader’s angry-sounding speech or the Arcanum that now constantly surrounded him.

“I’m told you are a healer.”

“Yes.”

The elderly magister grabbed Anders’s skinny right arm, turning it so that his palm was up, and abruptly shoved the sleeve of his ragged shirt up, exposing his pale flesh. He procured a small knife from his belt, and pressed it to Anders’s skin before drawing it across in a quick, rash motion. _The mage yelped at the pain,_ watching as the blood instantly oozed up.

“What are you—”

The magister’s light silver eyes were expectant. “Heal yourself.”

Anders pressed his left hand over the cut, using what little mana he had left to seal the wound, doing his best to reduce the scar that would inevitably be left. When he pulled it away, the magister roughly re-grasped his hand, examining the scar, pressing his fingers to it and trying to pull the wound reopen.

“It’s solid work,” he mused, before turning to the man in the blue robe. “Is he healthy?”

“A little on the lean side, but he’s sound.”

The magister frowned, his lips drawing into a line. Nudging Anders’s arms up, he roughly yanked his shirt up at the hem, exposing his thin chest. He turned Anders, to see his back as well, and then let the shirt drop.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, and the moment Anders did so, he found the magister peering at all of his teeth. He seemed to find everything in order, and tapped Anders’s lower jaw, letting him relax and close his mouth.

He took a step toward the blue-robed man, grasping one of Anders’s shackles firmly, before asking, “How much do you want for him?”

“Two hundred.”

The magister laughed. “You bring me a half starved slave from some Fereldan mud puddle and think he’s worth that much?”

“A hundred seventy.”

The dialogue switched back to Arcanum, and Anders let his thoughts consume him, until the magister produced a coin purse and impatiently handed the money to the other man. Suddenly he was yanking at Anders’s shackles, leading him away from the market. Anders struggled to keep pace with the magister, his legs aching from atrophy.

As they left the district, he sensed that bad things were to come.

***

 

After a long, uneventful march through the city, during which Anders thought he would simply die from the heat every step of the way, they arrived at the magister’s estate. Anders was led through a large, bronze gate, transfixed by the high walls that surrounded the mansion, but already planning how to climb over them.

The gates were shut behind him, and he saw four guards standing post there. He eliminated the gate as a possible exit point with a weary sigh, and continued following their small procession.

Inside the estate, he was separated from the main group, led away by a man taller than any Anders had ever seen before. He was broadly built, his sleeveless linen tunic revealing brawny arms and shoulders. Anders kept pace with the giant, who was patient enough to slow his gait. Together they slowly ambled to a separate wing of the villa, Anders longingly looking back at the walls from time to time.

The tall blond man laughed softly, and then said something in Arcanum. Anders’s only response was a confused look, prompting him to switch to common.

“I hear you’re our new healer,” he said, his voice low and rumbling, like a thunderstorm on the horizon. His accent was melodic, different than any Anders had ever heard before.

“I am?” Anders questioned. “I don’t…I don’t even know where I am. Or who bought me.”

More laughter followed. Anders found it strangely comforting.

“This is the house of Danarius,” he said, gesturing to the villa. They did not, however, deter from their path to the secluded wing.

“So he’s the magister?”

“Yes.”

“All right then.” Anders clung to that name. It made his situation somewhat more tangible, helped him get a grasp on it, now that his new master had a name to associate him with.

They walked in silence for a few moments more, until Anders asked, “What’s your name?”

“Brandr.”

“Brandr,” Anders repeated, admiring the sound. It sounded masculine and harsh, like Tjader’s name.

Brandr led them to the barricaded doors of the far wing, waiting as the two guards posted there opened them. He gave them a nod as they passed inside, into a marble-floored hall, lined with peculiar windows. They had no glass, but were cut into the wall in an intricate geometric pattern, allowing light and air to flow into the room. From the outside, however, they were barred.

Anders ignored the simplistic beauty of the hall, seeing only a challenge. The bars on the windows made them implausible, and he’d have to smash the small holes composing the decoration to even fit through them. The door was also out, due to the guards and the thick iron bar securing it shut.

“How are you called?” Brandr asked, dragging Anders once more from his scheming to focus on the conversation.

“I…just call me Anders.” He continued surveying the interior of the hall, looking for weak points or possible routes, but everything seemed secured. It was discouraging, but Anders knew he could find a way out. He had survived a year in solitary at the Tower, he would get through this.

Brandr led him into a larger, central room, and Anders peered up curiously. There was a square hole in the roof, making this area more of a courtyard than an actual room. Resting directly beneath the hole was a square stone pool, a few flowers floating on its surface. As they passed, Anders could make out a fish lazily circling in the clear water.

He guided Anders into a smaller, well lit room, with a stone tub inlaid into the floor. On the wall near the door, there was a small wooden table, with neatly folded towels and several corked bottles, and a high, sturdy table set against the far wall. Anders was still trying to absorb all of the details of this estate, from the oculus in the center room to the pond with the fattened fish, and now this marble tub, bigger than any he had seen in his life.

Brandr gently took Anders’s right hand, unlocking the cuff there, and repeated the gesture on the left, taking the chain away entirely. The smaller man absentmindedly rubbed his wrists as Brandr knelt to remove the ones at his ankles. As the second chain was pulled free, Anders thought for a split second about just running, but quashed the idea as Brandr stood back up to his full height.

He gestured at the bath, and Anders quickly stripped himself of his shirt, trousers, boots and smalls, not caring who saw him naked now. He had been almost three months without any kind of bath, and Maker be damned, he was not going to let a little modesty stop him now.

The water was cool on his skin, and it came as a welcome relief. As soon as his feet hit the bottom of the tub, the water settling at his waist, he slid all the way under, savoring the feel of it on his face. For a brief, blissful second he was able to forget the he was in Tevinter, hundreds of miles from home, from the Circle and solitary and Cullen, the only familiars in his life. He pushed the fear, the anxiousness at this new predicament, at this new master and new life, out of his mind, and simply enjoyed the way the water felt.

When he came back to reality, Brandr handed him a bar of soap and a washcloth. Anders instantly snatched it, scrubbing furiously at the dirt and grime built up on his skin, from sea salt to blood to various muck accrued from the hold. It smelled of sandalwood, he noticed, as he lathered it in his hands and wiped the dust and grease from his face before rinsing it clean.

If Brandr had not been watching him expectantly, Anders would have been content to stay in the tub all day. But the blond man’s somewhat impatient gaze forced him to surrender the soap and climb out, Brandr handing him a thick towel to dry off with. Anders wrung out his sopping hair and wiped his skin dry before Brandr handed him a sleeveless linen tunic, trousers, and new smalls.

He dressed himself, finding the clothes a bit big, but much more comfortable than his old ones, the scratchy wool too thick and heavy for this climate. Brandr looked him over, frowning at the state of his hair, and turned to the small table, sorting through the bottles before he picked one. He took a small knife and a comb as well, before turning to Anders.

“Sit,” he ordered, and Anders complied. Brandr sat behind him, uncorking the bottle and slowly pouring some of a slow flowing, greasy liquid into his palm.

Anders watched him cautiously. “What is that?” he asked, hesitant.

“Oil,” Brandr replied, his voice calm and deep. Anders felt hands in his hair, smearing it about, and then the bite of a comb as Brandr started to work the knots out. It stung, and seemed to drag on forever, but Brandr eventually got the most of them free and combed Anders’s hair a bit, before cutting it down to a respectable length.

His task done, he returned the bottles and the knife and comb to their place on the table. Anders followed him out of the room, his feet now bare, the marble cold and smooth on the naked soles of his feet. They headed across the central room, to another hallway, this one much shorter than the first.

At the end stood a black lacquered double door. Anders briefly admired the reliefs carved into it, most painted over in bright colors—a wolf here, some kind of exotic bird there, an elephant in the background. He scarcely noticed when Brandr started to leave his side, heading back down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Anders asked, starting to follow him.

Brandr stopped, and faced him. “Dominus is in there,” he said, pointing at the doors. “You should meet him now.”

Anders paled. He didn’t want to meet their master all alone. Danarius intimidated him—the magister was powerful, and his eyes lacked any kind of kindness. But he was helpless to stop Brandr as the man rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

He turned back to the doors, wondering if now would be the time to run. There was no one here, and he was light and fast…. He entertained the option momentarily, before tossing it aside. Running now would get him beaten or killed. He would just wait, and seize opportunity when the time was right.

Cautiously, he placed his palms on the right hand door, and slowly pushed it open, walking inside with as much confidence as he could muster.

As it would turn out, he didn’t need it.

The sounds of sex roughly permeated the air, harsh grunts met with a low, willing moan, and Anders was abruptly greeted to the sight of two men in the midst of carnal pleasure.

“Oh, Maker,” he whispered, utterly shocked at the sight before him. He immediately looked to the floor, but the image was still there, the sounds were still there, reminding him—

One had bright red hair, Anders remembered that. He had bright red hair in braids, braids that his partner was using to hold onto, orange locks wound around tan, lithe fingers. The other had white hair, perfectly white, like fresh snow on frozen ground. He was lean and sinewy, the muscles shifting beneath taut skin as he pounded into the redhead, his thrusts perfectly even and controlled.

“I…I’ll just come back” Anders said, feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment. Anders was shocked that neither of the two men seemed bothered by his presence, but he quickly spun back to the door.

“No, stay,” someone instructed. Anders froze, his hand on the metal handle of the door.

He hesitated for a long, long moment. They continued their activities, unperturbed.

Eventually, he turned back around to face them, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. He began tracing the dark lines in the marble, following them like tiny roads on a map. The grunting grew more insistent, and the redhead, Anders guessed, uttered a sharp gasp.

The next few thrusts were hard enough to scoot the desk the redhead was bent over, and Anders heard something clatter to the floor. He placed his hands behind his back, knitting his fingers together and counting the seconds.

There was another abrupt gasp from the redhead, followed by a snarl from the tanner man, and then the rhythmic thumps gave way into panting. Relief overwhelmed Anders when he realized that they were done, and he looked up to see the redhead redressing, pulling his trousers on lackadaisically.

The man with the white hair was not human, Anders noticed. He was an elf, lean in stature, but still rather tall, with piercing, stern green eyes. He ushered the redhead from the room with a simple gaze, the man slipping past Anders and shutting the heavy door as he left.

Anders remained fixated on the elf. Adorning his brown skin were what appeared to be tattoos, whitish in color, and woven in an intricate pattern. He had seen tattoos before, on a few elves at the Circle and some Dalish he had stumbled upon during escape number four, but none like this. These were reflective, almost metallic.

The elf leaned against the heavy desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He scrutinized the man before him, disapproval evident on his face, and Anders stood up straight, pushing his shoulders back, trying to look as assured as he could in his current state.

“You are the new healer?”

Anders looked at him, dead in the eye. “Yes.”

“What is your name?”

 _Don’t do anything stupid,_ a small, wary voice in the back of his head told him. “Anders, Dominus,” he replied. “My name is Anders.”


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris watched his new slave struggle to compose himself. He did an admirable job, but the slight twitching of his fingers and the bright red blush still on his cheeks gave him away. It appeared that walking in on him and Drustan had embarrassed the mage a great deal. He hadn’t intended to greet the mage that way, but Drustan had come to ask him something, and as it so often did with the Fereldan, one thing had quickly led to another. Well, that was something he was going to have to get over, and quickly. Privacy was a precious commodity in the household, even for him. 

“Anders,” he repeated, and watched the man nod. With a gesture, he beckoned Anders to step forward. The man did so, hesitantly, after a brief pause, coming to stop a couple of paces in front of Fenris. Pushing himself away from the desk, Fenris walked a slow circle around Anders, examining him. The man was tall and thin, skinny even, with pale skin, blond hair and honey brown eyes. The shape of his nose and jaw reminded Fenris of Brandr, and given Anders’s name, he was reasonably sure they shared a heritage. 

“Where are you from?” he asked, flipping up Anders’s tunic, and frowning at the clearly visible lines of ribs and hints of his hipbones peeking out just above the waistband of his trousers. The too-big clothes had disguised just how thin he was. But for all that he was in desperate need of feeding, he was remarkably toned, the muscles of his torso, back and arms clearly defined. _That_ was unusual. In Fenris’s experience, mages tended to be soft, relying on their magic instead of true strength. That this mage might be different was…pleasing. 

“Ferelden, Dominus,” Anders answered, and it was as Fenris suspected. His accent was much milder than Drustan’s, but it was still clearly there. 

“Then you should get along well with Drustan.” 

“Drustan?” A raised eyebrow from Fenris had Anders quickly adding, “Ser,” to his question. 

“The slave who just left.” 

“Oh.” Anders squirmed slightly. “I, uh, look forward to it, I guess.” 

Done with his inspection, Fenris settled against the desk once more, arms again folded across his chest. “As I have probably paid a far too exorbitant sum for you, I want to know what you’re capable of. I know you’re a healer—you wouldn’t be here otherwise—but I need to know how extensive your skills are.” 

Anders frowned slightly, lips pursed and forehead creased slightly, no doubt thinking how best to respond and how much truth to tell. His face was expressive, clearly revealing his emotions. He would be a terrible liar, and Fenris hoped he wouldn’t lie now and force Fenris to punish him within the first ten minutes of meeting him. Finally, Anders gave a small nod and straightened proudly. 

“I’m good,” he said bluntly. “Damn good. Healing is what I _do_ , and you’ll be hard pressed to find better than me.” 

Fenris’s brows lifted at the bold statement. Either the mage was attempting to make himself more valuable in the eyes of his owner, or he was truly talented and proud of the fact. Interesting. Time would tell soon enough which it was, but Anders would be sorry if it were the former. Fenris had no use for incompetent braggarts. 

“And offensively?” he asked quietly. 

There was a slight hesitation, and Anders licked his lips. “Some.” 

Fenris waited silently. Anders wiped his palms on his trousers and then clarified. “Mostly elemental spells—fire and ice, lightning. That sort of thing.” 

“What, no blood magic?” 

Surprisingly, Anders recoiled, disgust twisting his features. “Andraste’s tits, _no_! Blood magic is revolting. And wrong. And _painful_. Did I mention painful? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m not very eager to start carving myself up and make deals with demons. I like my flesh exactly the way it is, thank you very much—whole, and abomination free.” 

It seemed there was no end to surprises to his new slave, Fenris mused. Though the lack of blood magic was a welcome trait, the mage’s increasing tendency to run his mouth was not. However, Fenris could understand how Anders would find his new life distressing, and would give his new slave a day or two to settle in before correcting his behavior. There were still other matters to discuss for the moment. 

“What have you been told about your duties here?”

Anders blinked. “Nothing. Until a few hours ago, I’d been in the hold of a ship for nearly three months. And since then, the only thing I’ve heard is Danarius and Brandr mention me being a healer.”

Stepping away from the desk once more, Fenris moved to a window, looking through the bars to view the lush garden beyond. “Then I will explain. But first….” 

He faced Anders. “There are some things you would do well to remember. I am your master and you will address me as such. I care not for the title—Dominus, Master, ser—but you will remember your place. Is that clear?” 

The mage’s lips thinned slightly. “Yes, _ser_ ,” he said quite clearly, his inflection of the honorific almost enough to make it an insult. Oh, yes, this one had spirit. 

Fenris continued to ignore it for the moment and continued. “Secondly, Danarius is a magister, and you will address _him_ as such. Though I doubt you will ever find yourself in any conversation with him, you will address him as ‘Master.’ Is that also clear?” 

“Yes, ser.” 

“Good.” Fenris paused, deciding how best to approach this. “You were purchased specifically because I often require a healer, and my other healer died about a month ago.” The other man’s face blanched at that slightly, and Fenris allowed himself a small smile. “He was old,” he explained, “and in poor health. Do not fret. He died through no action of mine.” 

“Oh, well, that is a bit of a relief then. Ser. Ah…if I may ask, why exactly do you need a healer?” 

“I am a gladiator. How much do you know of such things?” 

Anders frowned thoughtfully. “Not much. I know something of Tevinter, but not much about that, except that it involves fighting or battle of some sort, and that the losers are put to death.” 

Fenris made a disgusted sound low in his throat. “Ignorance,” he muttered. Raising his voice, he said, “It involves fighting, yes, in a wide variety of ways. It is, at its core, blood sport, entertainment for the masses. The games are sponsored by wealthy senators and merchants to elevate their own standing. And while once, long ago, defeated opponents may have been slain, that is very rarely the case now. Good fighters are simply too valuable to waste like that.” 

“Oh.” The mage’s brows were still pulled together as he absorbed the information. “So I’ll be healing you after fights?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right then. That doesn’t sound very complicated. Uh, how often do you do this sort of thing? Ser.” 

Now it was Fenris’s turn to frown slightly. “Most gladiators do not fight that often. Perhaps a handful of times a year. I am…different.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You said you were ‘damn good’ at healing? I am even better in the arena. I succeed in matches against greater odds that would fell almost all other men. Accordingly, I command a high price for my services. As Danarius is fond of both wealth and power, he takes almost all contract offers for me.” 

Baffled, Anders shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What does Danarius—ah, I mean, Magister Danarius—have to do with this.” 

“Danarius is my master.” The words were uttered evenly, without inflection. There was no way for Anders to tell how much that admission cost, how bitter the words were upon his tongue. Nor would he ever let the mage know. Not that, and not the fact that he was aware of the hypocrisy of his situation, owning slaves and demanding of them the same things he hated having demanded of him. 

But he couldn’t change it. And maintaining the status quo was what kept them all breathing. 

He could see the mage was about to respond with more questions, and moved to cut him off. Crossing to the door, he pulled it open and gestured for the mage to precede him. Once out of his quarters, he led Anders to area with the small pool and called, “Brandr!” 

The large man appeared from his room, the one Fenris had given to him after Claudius passed. “Show Anders around and where he’ll be staying. Introduce him to the others and explain the rules to him.” 

Brandr nodded. “Yes, Dominus.” And taking Anders’s elbow gently, he led him down the hall where the main rooms were. 

Fenris watched them go, and saw the look Anders threw over his shoulder. Once they had turned into a room, Fenris headed back to his own quarters, rubbing the back of his neck. The mage, like all of his kind, was going to be trouble.

 

~*~ 

“Do you need something, Samahl?” Fenris asked quietly as Tacitus slipped into the room through the partially opened door, shutting it behind him. 

The boy flashed a smile at the name Fenris only used when they were alone, and gave a quiet, breathy laugh, barely more than a gasp of air. It was one of the only real sounds the boy could make, and Fenris had dubbed him with the elven word for laughter after he’d realized that fact. It was something private, a secret between the two of them, and it never failed to make the elven boy smile. 

Padding further into the room, Tacitus pulled his left hand from where it had been hidden behind his back. Grinning, Fenris saw what he had clutched in his hand and stood from his chair, removing a small box from a drawer in his desk and motioning the boy to have a seat on the cushions strewn before one of the large windows. 

Fenris settled himself down across from the boy and held out a hand. Tacitus dropped the wooden figure into it, and Fenris held it up to the light. The figure was about six inches high, and carved skillfully from dark wood—a small, rather life-like representation of a man. Or an elf, in this particular case. 

It was another of Brandr’s hidden talents. The figures had begun appearing a few months after Tacitus, the second slave Fenris had owned after Brandr, had joined them. Then, the boy had been a thin, silent scrap, constantly afraid. No matter that Fenris’s intervention had likely saved him from being a magister’s sacrifice, Tacitus had been terrified, cowering and cringing from everyone, but especially the wild looking elf who now owned him. 

In secret, the only one Fenris had been able to determine that Brandr ever kept from him, the giant had begun carving the toys and giving them to Tacitus to calm him. Fenris had discovered them by accident one day, and the sight of the boy on his knees, clutching the figures and making thready, little distressed sounds had bothered him more than anything else ever had. He’d simply left the boy then, and privately told Brandr to reassure him and that he could keep carving the figures. 

That simple action had changed something for Tacitus, and Fenris would find the child staring at him, watching him with piercing blue eyes. Small overtures of kindness led to the boy slowly warming to him, and in time, he’d lost his fear of Fenris. The two of them had worked out a series of gestures to communicate with, something that became increasingly necessary as Tacitus aged and other slaves joined the household. It wasn’t a true language in any sense, but it allowed the boy to speak, after a fashion. 

Now, he turned the figure over in his hands, noting the chipped white hair and lines that were painted onto the figure. Opening the small box, he took out a tiny pot, working the cork out to reveal white paint, and selected a thin, fine paintbrush. Dipping the brush into the pot and beginning to repair the chips, he asked, “So tell me, Samahl, how did this warrior come to be so injured, hmm?” 

Tacitus ducked his head with another huff of air, shoulders shaking with his silent laughter. He flexed his arms—the sign for Brandr—and then held the thumb and forefinger of one hand against the edges of his mouth and drew them down—the sign for Fenris. Then he moved his hands as if each held a sword and moved them together, the gesture for fighting or combat. 

“Ah, I see. Was it a long battle?” 

An eager nod, brown hair flopping over his eyes. 

“And was it a good fight? Honor for both?” 

Again, another decisive nod. 

“So who won this fierce and glorious contest?” 

Tacitus huffed and rolled his eyes and pointed to Fenris. 

Fenris chuckled. “Ah, of course. There, I think that’s all of it. He’ll need to dry now.” He set the figure down on the floor next to the window and closed up the box, set the brush aside to rinse later. Tacitus tapped his forehead twice. _Thank you_. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Expecting Tacitus to go back to his playing, he was puzzled when the boy continued to sit there, chewing on his lower lip. “Are you all right, Samahl?” 

He nodded, still chewing, and then frowned. He wiggled his fingers, the sign for magic. Instantly, Fenris understood. 

“The new mage. Anders. You’ve met him?” A quick, sharp nod. “What do you think?” Being unable to speak meant that Tacitus had to be hyper aware of everything around him, to prevent any misunderstandings before they could become such. He was sharp, keenly observant, and missed very little. 

Tacitus frowned again, and then held one hand out palm down and rocked it side to side. _I don’t know_. 

“I do not _think_ he is dangerous,” Fenris stressed. “But if he does anything, you are to come get me immediately, no matter what. Do you understand?” 

Eyes wide, the boy looked at him doubtfully. Then he point to the door and pressed his palms together in front of him, eyebrows rising in question. 

“Yes, even if the door’s closed. You can knock, if you don’t wish to enter.” Fenris leaned over and rapped his knuckles in a simple pattern on the marble floor. Instantly, Tacitus copied it. “Exactly so,” Fenris said, smiling. “Do that and I will know it is you. All right?” 

Reassured, Tacitus nodded and grinned. Then he darted to his feet and scampered back to the door and out into the hallway, leaving the door ajar just as he’d found it. Alone once more, his smiled faded as his eyes sought the small figure standing on the stone. A child’s toy, an innocent and clean facsimile of a hard and brutal life. His hands tightened into fists. If Tacitus was leery of the mage, then Fenris would have to keep an eye on him. No healer was worth risking the delicate balance he’d built here.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders wasn’t quite sure what to make of Fenris.

 _A gladiator_ , he thought to himself, his feet mindlessly shuffling after Brandr. _And an elf, too._ His new master was a tan, tattooed warrior who was a slave himself. Anders was confused, mildly irritated by the man, and yet afraid of him.

He had never done well with authority. Rules, in his opinion, were meant to be broken, just like Towers were meant to be escaped from. Back in Ferelden, he’d constantly challenged the templars who watched over him and the enchanters who instructed him. And he knew he would do the same with Fenris. Despite his power, his position, at the end of the day he was just a man, the same as Anders.

And ultimately, they were both slaves, whether they liked to admit it or not.

Brandr first showed him the kitchen, a warm room with a hearth and laden with the savory scent of bread and meat. Next was a communal bedroom, where he would be sleeping, along with, he assumed, the redhead from before. Anders frowned slightly at the thought, and wondered if Brandr would occupy the third cot or someone else. 

Afterwards, Brandr led him to a common area, a luscious, open space adorned with couches, the walls lined with many of the patterned windows to let sunlight pour in. At first, Anders pictured himself lying on all the various couches, only to have that pleasant thought chased away by images of Fenris fucking that redheaded man on each and every one.

Next were a small wash room, much less opulent than the one Anders had used earlier, and the combined kitchen and eating area. Brandr explained quietly in his deep voice, “These are the rooms we use. The large bathing chamber and dining room are Dominus’s. They are off limits to you and you are not to enter them. The same is true for the women’s room.” He gave him a hard look until Anders nodded.

The last room in the villa Brandr showed him was his own, a small, somewhat dark room with a cot and a tiny square table. Anders was envious of him, of the privacy and status this room implied.

As nice as everything was, he’d noticed that the rooms set aside for them, with the exception of the common room, were significantly darker than the bright, open areas of the house. It gave the rooms an almost claustrophobic feel when compared to the rest of the villa, and reminded Anders too much of cells in the tower, both the ones for mages high above and ones for rule-breakers far below. 

Brandr led him to the gardens next, Anders taking careful note of where the guards were posted, trying to decipher where any blind spots in the villa might be. Their wing was segregated from the rest of the estate, surrounded not only by the high walls that surrounded the entire grounds but also by an iron fence taller than Anders himself. While the fence was easily climbable, the exterior walls were high, about twice as high as he stood, and he knew he’d need some way to boost up them. Their surfaces were smooth, not made of rough interlocked stones that could potentially provide a handhold or foothold, but Anders noticed that some of the villa’s rooftops drew near the walls, perhaps close enough to jump from one to the other.

They walked around the edge of the garden nearest to their wing of the villa. Anders stuck to the shade provided by the various trees, trying to see which ones he recognized. One in particular had small, black fruits, and Anders reached up and plucked several when Brandr had his back turned to him.

They were the size of grapes and roughly the same in weight. Anders lightly squeezed it in his fingers, testing it, before deciding that it was safe to eat. _What kind of a magister would have poisonous fruit growing in his garden, anyhow?_ He quickly popped one in his mouth, whole, and bit down.

A salty taste flooded his mouth, and his teeth struck a hard pit. Instantly, he spit it out, gagging, and Brandr turned around to see Anders shaking his head in disgust, angrily throwing down the other two samples.

“What _are_ those?” he asked, bewildered.

“Olives.” 

“They’re wretched,” he scowled. “Andraste’s knickerweasels, why would someone cultivate a tree like that?”

Brandr laughed. “They’re not so bad. You have to give them a chance. And they have other uses besides food.”

Anders shook his head. “I’m never eating another one of those again so long as I live, Maker help me.” He grimaced comically once more. 

Brandr began walking back to the estate, Anders trailing after him, no longer interested in the trees or the fruit they bore. “So…what will I actually do around here?” he asked, Brandr, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

“When Dominus fights, you will tend to him. He might also need you after training. Otherwise, you are free to do as you please. If I have a task for you, I will give it to you, but there are no daily chores you must perform.”

Anders raised an eyebrow. Something about this whole arrangement seemed…off. He was a slave—slaves were supposed to toil from sunup to sundown, performing laborious, meticulous tasks while under constant scrutiny from their master. They weren’t supposed to be given the free will to laze around like a fat cat all day. 

“Really? That’s it? I’m needed once a month, but other than that I can just…do whatever I want?”

Brandr nodded. “So long as you’re not destructive.”

Anders didn’t think that wandering the estate, searching for weak points and possible escape routes was destructive. Mischievous, yes, but he wasn’t burning anything down in an effort to get out. At least, not until he was certain it would work…

***

Anders spent the rest of the afternoon poking around the villa, enjoying all the suspicious looks the guards at various posts gave him. When they looked away, Anders made mocking faces right back at them, sticking out his tongue and scowling like a boy. One day, he knew, he would be running free on the other side of the walls while they scratched their heads and tried to reason how he had gotten out.

He found a few trees that were growing a feasible jumping distance to the walls, but one was too young and thin to support his weight. The other two were certainly plausible, however, and Anders decided to use those as a springboard.

He assumed that the guards would lock down their wing of the villa at night, so he would have to figure a way out of the lockbox of a building or be outside when they turned the key. Either option seemed as though it would be difficult, but Anders knew he could figure something out. For now, he intended to rest up, eat the food he was given, perform the duties he was assigned, and just generally stay out of everyone’s way. If he made himself scarce now, he would be easier to miss later.

When he returned inside, smiling rather smugly at the two guards who gave him curious looks as they unlocked the door, the wholesome smell of food hit him and made his mouth water. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was—paying attention to the desperate pangs his stomach made, or the slow, gnawing pain had done him no good on the ship. But now, there was food readily available, and Anders was starving.

He tried not to run through the villa, the marble cold on his bare feet, and so he settled for a jogging pace, one that made him look dainty and effeminate and had earned him ridicule from the other apprentices in the Circle. He didn’t care now. They were still locked in a damp, cold tower in Ferelden, and he was here, in warm Tevinter, serving a gladiator. The way Anders saw it, the small detail about slavery could just be ignored.

It took Anders a few moments to find the kitchen. He stumbled back into the living room for a moment, find it empty, but he followed the smell of dinner and soon was at the correct room. He peeked inside, tentatively, surveying the occupants first.

There were five of them, Brandr included. The redheaded man with the braids from before, Drustan, sat across from him at the plain wooden table, and next to him, on the far side of the room, were three women. One of them, an elf, had blonde hair and pretty violet eyes, and Anders smiled when she looked up at him, but she turned her eyes back to the table, unenthused. 

He stood in the doorway, awkwardly, an interloper to this small environment. Before, out in the gardens with Brandr, he hadn’t felt this…ostracized, but now, with the rest of the slaves sitting here, in their kitchen, the bonds between them already well established, he felt like a hapless stray. 

“Can I…?” he began, sheepish, pointing at the bowls that sat before each of them. One of the women, another young elven girl with soft, auburn hair and striking green eyes, peeked up at him before glancing at the two women on either side of her. Neither of them bothered to acknowledge Anders.

Brandr cleared his throat gently, the others in the room immediately turning to look at him. “Dominus wished me to introduce all of you.” He began by gesturing to the redhead. “This is Drustan.”

“We’ve, er, met,” Anders said awkwardly. Drustan’s lips curled in a smile, and Anders was taken aback by just how much pride was in the man’s face. He was proud to be taken like that, and to be exposed to openly and shamelessly? Anders dropped his eyes away from Drustan’s arrogant, smirking gaze.

Next, Brandr gestured to the women, pointing out the dark skinned human woman first. “That is Isidora. Beside her are Nadia and Septima.” Then Brandr gestured to him. “This is Anders. He’s the new healer, replacing Claudius.”

“Hi,” he said tentatively, offering what he hoped was a friendly smile.

Drustan suddenly stood, pushing his bowl slightly to the center of the table, and left the room without a word, purposely hitting Anders with his shoulder as he exited. Anders reeled for a moment, off balance, his light frame easily moved by someone heavier and stronger than him.

The women all stood and left as a group, until the only occupants of the room were Brandr, Anders and the uncomfortable silence between them. Brandr rose and fetched another bowl, scraping the pot with a ladle and dumping the contents into the bowl before handing it to Anders. There was no judgment, no spite in Brandr’s eyes, unlike the others. “Give them time,” he said softly.

Brandr finished eating and left a few moments later, stacking the bowls at the edge of the table. Anders watched him go, suddenly aware of how very alone he was. At least, in the Circle there had been no language barrier, no foreign customs, and all of the apprentices shared common ground to bond over. 

For the first time in his short, turbulent life, Anders found himself longing for the Circle.

***

After eating, he quickly eliminated socializing as a possible option for the evening. Instead, he decided to wander the estate and perhaps head back outside into the garden for a bit of fresh air. Having spent so long trapped in the Tower, he still found the outdoors to be a somewhat novel experience, and the gardens here were a perfect spot to run around like a fool and feel the earth under his feet. 

As he reached the center room, he saw a small boy sitting at the edge of the square pool. He was resting on the ledge, back turned to Anders, with his feet submerged in the clear water, his arms occasionally waving at the elbow. Anders slowly approached him, his feet quiet on the stone, walking to the boy’s right side and stopping a few feet away. 

He was happily playing with two wooden figures, engaging them in a mock fight in the air, his eyes alight with simple wonder and enchantment. Anders watched him for a few moments, until the boy noticed him, startled, and clutched his figures tightly to his chest. He stared at Anders, mildly terrified, and the mage crouched down to his level, trying not to be threatening.

“Hi,” he said, giving a small wave. “I’m Anders.”

The boy gave him no response other than scooting slightly away, his eyes never leaving the mage.

“I sincerely hope you speak common,” he continued, “because I don’t speak any Arcanum yet. But what’s your name?”

Still silence from the boy, who moved even farther away, his brown hair falling into his eyes.

“Well, never mind that,” Anders said, shifting to a sitting position. “Who’s that you were playing with? Can I see?” 

He extended a hand out to the boy, trying to see one of the wooden dolls he held. The boy clutched them tighter, and then panicked, pulling his feet from the water and running. One of them clattered to the floor in his hurry, bouncing near the ledge of the pool.

“Wait, don’t go!” Anders called. He sighed as the boy rounded a corner and disappeared. Suddenly the idea of being given a menial task to perform all day long was looking better and better than being left to his own devices.

He carefully reached over to retrieve the child’s toy. He turned it over in his hands, examining the handiwork, and instantly recognized the incarnation. With white hair and finely painted tattoos, this was a small totem of Fenris himself. Anders frowned at the man’s hubris, giving the young boy a toy modeled after himself to play with.

He set the figure by the pool and wandered out to the garden, the charm of the oculus sullied by making a child flee in terror. For a long time, he sat, looking up at the sky, watching the last shreds of light fade to be replaced by brilliant stars. He wondered what they were doing at this moment back in the Tower, hundreds of miles away. What were Amell and Surana up to at this very second? Did they miss him? Did they perhaps also wonder where he was and what he was doing?

He thought briefly on Tjader. Was she still sitting out in the pens, waiting to be sold? Or had some master already bought her and acquainted her with the life she would know from now on?

Watching the sky with its unfamiliar stars made him sleepy, and he slowly rose from his spot, meandering back to the room he was to share with the other male slave. The door was shut, but Anders figured that it was now his room too, and he had a right to sleep there. He pushed it open, trying to be as quiet as he could be, and found the other slave already curled up on his cot.

He shut the door behind him and crept onto the open bed furthest from the door. The thin straw pallet cushioned him against the hard platform of the wood base it rested on, enough so that his limbs wouldn’t be stiff and achy the next morning. He curled up on it, shutting his eyes, and fell asleep wishing that these past three months had just been some sort of strange dream. But a nagging voice in his head told him that this was the reality he would have to grow used to, like it or not.

Hopefully tomorrow would be a better day.


	5. Chapter 5

With a healing mage once again available to him, Fenris was eager to get back to training so that he could get back into the arena. A month was far too long to go without seriously testing his skills, and he could already feel his control slipping. He knew his strength was fine, having continued with the regime of exercises he used, but it was no substitute for sparring with weapons.   
  
He arose early the next morning, intending to eat and then take Brandr to the yards to train. His plans were changed slightly when he opened his door only to have Tacitus fall backward into the room, the boy having been sitting against the door. Fenris frowned, looking down at him.   
  
For his part, Tacitus looked abashed. “What is it?” Fenris asked, impatient to get on with his day. In response, the boy held up the figure of Fenris, turning it to show a new chip in the paint.   
  
Fenris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “What do you do? Chew on them? Give it here.” Taking the figure from Tacitus, he quickly got the paint case and touched up the figure. Setting it down on the desk, he said, “You can get it later. For now, go see if the women need any help.”   
  
The boy nodded, tapped his forehead and dashed off. Fenris watched him go with a slight frown, wondering why it had been so important that Tacitus had been waiting outside his door that early. Then he shrugged. It didn’t matter, really, so long as he was happy.   
  
After eating, he and Brandr made their way out of Fenris’s section of the villa into the estate proper. Guards followed their movements, but knew not to interfere. They each selected their weapons—Fenris his greatsword and Brandr the sword and shield combination he’d once used in the arena—and settled into an empty spot in the yard.   
  
They worked through a series of exercises first, to re-accustom themselves. With each pass and swipe of his blade, Fenris felt the tension within him—a product of forced inactivity and confinement—begin to bleed out. By the time the two men were done warming up, and faced off against each other, he leapt into the fight like a horse taking a bit between its teeth and running.   
  
The sounds of steel on steel echoed through the yard, alongside wild shouts and cries from both men. To be a gladiator was not simply to be a warrior. The crowds came to be entertained and they demanded a spectacle. Fights were oftentimes an elaborate dance. Though ability and skill would not be sacrificed for aesthetics, how visually appealing the fight was had to be considered. A gladiator might not follow up on a killing blow in order to use a flashier move. Shouts that could reach high into the stands were favored, though it meant exerting energy that wouldn’t help win the fight.   
  
Brandr and Fenris stopped their contest often, to adjust position or allow Brandr to point out a different tactic Fenris could use in certain situations. The large man’s experience and insight had proven an extraordinary boon to Fenris over the years, and he listened with an honest respect that he gave no one else, not even Danarius.   
  
At one point, Septima arrived with food and stayed to serve them while they took a long break in the shade, remaining after they were done and going to fetch them more water when they needed it. Fenris watched the guards call and whisper things as she passed, Septima scurrying to get past their lewd comments. There was a pecking order amongst slaves, and a slave owned by a slave occupied the very lowest tier. It was for that reason Fenris wouldn’t let Tacitus leave his wing or the villa, and why Drustan chose to stay there. Whatever else Fenris had saved them from, there was nothing he could do about how they were treated by the rest of Danarius’s household. That did not mean he liked the way his people were treated.

Through narrowed eyes, Fenris watched, doing nothing for the moment. And then a guard—a newer one for Fenris didn’t recognize the man—made a fatal mistake, and grabbed her arm, pulling her closer to grope her.

In a flash—both figurative and literal—Fenris moving, flying to Septima’s side and flinging the guard into a wall. Without thought, Fenris shoved the elven girl behind him, toward Brandr who had followed him. “She is not yours!” Fenris snarled at the guard, who was getting to his feet, one held against the side of his head. “I did not give you permission to touch her!”  
  
The man shook his head, dropping a hand to grasp the hilt of his sword. Fenris dropped into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet, willing the fool to challenge him. “Do it,” he hissed. “Draw your blade if you’ve the courage.”  
  
For a second, it appeared as if the guard would. His hand tightened upon his hilt and he began to slide his weapon free. But then another, older guard grabbed his arm, roughly shoving the blade back into its sheath. “Do not!” the man snapped at his subordinate. He looked at Fenris, still tense and ready to do violence, and bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, gladiator. He will not do that again.”  
  
Fenris sucked in a harsh breath through flared nostrils and forced himself to step back, straightening from his crouch. “See that he does not.” It was the most he could bring himself to say before stalking away from the group on stiff legs. He dragged Septima along with him, and nearly hurled the girl at Brandr. “Take her back to our quarters. If any of the others are out, get them back inside. I will not have any more trouble today.”  
  
Brandr nodded, wisely keeping silent, and gently guided a shaken Septima back inside the estate. For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Fenris took his frustrations out on the posts in the yard, stopping only when he struck one hard enough to crack the practice sword in his hands. He flung it to the ground and then stalked back to his part of the villa.  
  
The slaves made themselves scarce when Fenris slammed back into the wing. He waved away Brandr’s offer of food and a bath, scrubbing himself down in the smaller, more utilitarian bathing room attached to his bedroom. This wasn’t like how it as after a fight, when his aggression was able to work its way properly to the end, when he had time after a fight to let the adrenaline and battle lust dissipate gradually. His blood had been raised, and all of his actions since then had served only to inflame it further.  
  
A sound at the door made him snap his head up to see Drustan leaning against the door frame. A wolf-like smile curled up the corners of his mouth. Seeing that he had Fenris’s attention, he stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. And all of Fenris’s pent up aggression and frustration was suddenly channeled in a different direction.  
  
They met in the middle of the room, and it was not gentle. One of the reasons Fenris had sought out a slave like Drustan was to slake the violent lust and need to dominate that he loathed, but could not deny or control. The Fereldan was strong, muscled and solid. Unlike with the women, Fenris didn’t feel the need to restrain himself. And Drustan knew what his master wanted, provided enough of a challenge to sate Fenris’s desires before finally submitting.  
  
Mouths met, all teeth and tongue, and when Fenris tasted blood, he snarled and pushed back harder. They grappled and an observer might liken their struggle to a wrestling match. It continued for some minutes before Fenris’s lust peaked higher and he wanted more. Drustan’s clothes were torn, rent in Fenris’s need and haste. His shirt, pushed off his shoulders, trapped his arms, and Fenris kept them like that as they stumbled backward toward the bed.  
  
When the back of Drustan’s thighs met the edge of the high bed, Fenris shoved him backward, pleased with the slight grunt from the slave as his arms were caught beneath him. Even so, the redhead pressed up with his hips as Fenris stepped between his thighs, pressing his clothed erection against Fenris’s naked one. He moaned and shuddered as Drustan continued the undulating motion, leaning forward and bracing his arms against the mattress as he let the slave move against him.With a great effort, Fenris pushed himself back, leaving Drustan to thrust against empty air a few times before his hips finally stilled. The Fereldan’s normally pale skin was flushed pink and damp from sweat. The man’s arms might have been bound in a way, but his expression was slack with lust, and the outline of his rigid cock could clearly be seen through the thin material of his trousers.  
  
Working quickly, Fenris undid the simple drawstring and tugged Drustan’s pants down and off his legs, freeing his erection with a soft groan. He stepped away from the prone man just long enough to fumble a bottle of oil from the bedside table and then stepped back between his legs. Whatever his haste or impatience, he would  _not_  take the other man without at least some preparation. He’d seen the results of such cruel and careless behavior and did not subject his own slaves to the same ordeal.  
  
But he didn’t linger overlong. One finger, then two, twisting and stretching just enough so that it wouldn’t really hurt and there’d be no tearing. Then he rubbed his oil slicked hand over his own cock, pushed Drustan’s legs up, almost bending him double, and thrust in.  
  
Drustan hissed with the initial intrusion, and Fenris paused to give him a moment. When he felt the shift, the change in the man’s body around him, he pulled back out most of the way and began a quick, demanding rhythm. He was not inclined to draw the experience out tonight. There were no gentle and coy euphemisms for what this was. Fenris fucked the man beneath him, seeking his own pleasure first and foremost.  
  
Only when he was close, when he felt the pressure building behind his balls, did he lift a hand from the mattress and wrap it roughly around the other man’s cock. He stroked quickly, and Drustan gasped and moaned beneath him. There was just enough oil left on his hand that Fenris knew he wasn’t hurting him.  
  
The cock in his hand seemed to swell, and then Drustan stiffened and came with a cry, come painting lines on his abdomen and chest that parodied the markings on Fenris’s own body. The tightening of Drustan’s body around him pushed Fenris over the edge, and he gasped out his release, catching himself so that he didn’t collapse on the other man as his knees went weak.  
  
After taking a few moments, he pulled out and away, moving just enough to collapse facedown on the bed next to Drustan. An easy silence fell between the two as they each caught their breath. Drustan had allowed his legs to fall back down, feet touching the floor, but he made no move to try and free his arms. Finally, Fenris reached over and nudged him, and the slave sat up, shrugging off the remnants of his shirt. He cocked one red brow at Fenris, and Fenris nodded toward his private bath chamber.  
  
As the sounds of Drustan washing up drifted out of the doorway, Fenris dragged himself further onto his bed, exhausted. There was a vague hunger in his stomach, but not enough to keep his eyelids from drifting down. He stirred briefly, once at the feel of a wet washcloth on his groin as Drustan gently cleaned him, and then again as the man crawled into bed next to him, flipping a light sheet over them.  
  
Fenris rolled over, throwing an arm across Drustan’s chest, and let sleep claim him.  
  
~*~  
  
The next day and the day after, Fenris continued the same routine of training, but went back to his own quarters to eat and rest, rather than risk a repeat encounter like Septima’s.  
  
Returning on the third night, he was met by an agitated Anders. The mage looked frazzled, wisps of blond hair having been pulled out of the neat ponytail he kept it in.  
  
“I need to talk to you,” he said without preamble as Fenris made his way to the deep bath tub to soak.  
  
“Later,” Fenris said. “It can wait.”  
  
“No, it bloody well can’t wait!” Anders snapped. Then he seemed to remember who he was talking to because he opened his mouth again and then closed it with a click. “All right,” he muttered, “so it  _can_  wait. Just…Maker’s blood, please don’t make me wait too long. I can’t take much more of this."

By the time Fenris finished bathing and eating, and had checked up on the other slaves, it had grown late. He retired to his own room, with an order to Nadia to tell the mage he wanted to see him.   
  
When Anders poked his head into Fenris’s bedroom, Fenris was seated at his desk, looking over the records of his account that Danarius was required to provide him. As the mage, more anxious now than he had been before, stepped inside, Fenris slipped the sheets of parchment into a drawer.   
  
“What is the matter?” he asked.   
  
“I’m bored,” Anders said immediately.   
  
After a moment of stunned silence, Fenris frowned. “You are…bored.”   
  
Anders groaned. “Andraste’s knicker weasels, that did not come out how I meant it to. Listen, I’m bored and it’s  _driving me insane_ . I know most people would jump all over the chance to lounge around and do nothing, but I can only do that for so long. I do really, really poorly with confinement to begin with—I mean, there’s a reason I kept running away from the Circle—but at least while I was there, there were things to do! Books to read, potions to make, classes to take or teach, giant spiders in the basement to storeroom to vanquish!”   
  
Anders impatiently brushed a strand of hair out of his face before he continued. “But here, there’s nothing! No books, no potions to make—Maker, not even a garden of elfroot to take care of—there’s no one I can teach magic to, and there are no giant spiders. Not that I want giant spiders here, mind you. They’re rather disgusting, far too many creepy eyes and giant hairy legs. And the sheer amount of fluids when you kill them?” Anders gagged slightly. “No, thank you.”   
  
For the first time in a very long time, Fenris found himself confounded by the person in front of him. For his entire life, what memory he had of it, he’d always known his role and been surrounded by people who knew theirs. And those that didn’t either figured it out quickly or perished. But even so, they always followed certain patterns of behavior. This mage, Anders, did not.   
  
By all rights, he should have been keeping his head down, being quiet and unobtrusive until he’d settled into the household and his place within it. Instead, he came before his master, near babbling in the manic mood he was in, and making demands of him. Very briefly, Fenris wondered if the mage was insane, if the rapid speech patterns and wild gesticulations hinted at some deeper mental imbalance.   
  
But then he remembered his own life shortly after Danarius began entering him in fights. Back then, he was still just a slave, of no particular renown or worth as a gladiator. Danarius would lock him back in the same tiny cell at night, still tense from the heat of battle. And instead of resting, he would pace, back and forth, back and forth, over and over again until he was sure he’d worn grooves in the stone floor.   
  
“What would alleviate your boredom?” he asked quietly, not wholly without sympathy for the mage’s plight.   
  
Anders’s brows shot up, as if he hadn’t expected that response. “Books,” he replied promptly. “I’m actually remarkably good at keeping myself entertained, you know. But here I don’t even have Mr. Wiggums to talk to, so I find myself at a bit of a loss. But books would be a great help. Also, if you’re really not too terribly attached to some of the plants in the garden, I’d like to grow some of my own. Nothing terribly exotic, just a few helpful plants. Maybe some herbs.”   
  
Rising from his seat, Fenris gestured to the bookcase placed against one wall. “You may take two.” For a moment, Anders didn’t move. Then realizing that Fenris meant  _right now_ , he hurried to the bookcase, looked the shelves over quickly, and selected two, seemingly at random.   
  
“As for the garden, ask Brandr. I don’t care what grows there, but you’ll need his approval to plant anything. If he agrees, tell him he may purchase what you need."

“Really? Excellent!” The mage was practically bouncing with glee, a wide smile plastered across his face. Fenris said nothing, but crossed his arms, waiting. The mage was rapidly wearing out the goodwill Fenris had toward him with his babbling and appalling lack of appropriate behavior. Anders frowned slightly in confusion before understanding dawned on his face. “Oh, right,” Anders said quickly, “where are my manners? Thank you. Thank you very much. Ser. Master. Dominus. So…I’ll, uh, just go now, shall I?”   
  
“Yes,” Fenris said through gritted teeth, and Anders, taking the hint, dashed back through the door.   
  
Fenris closed the door behind him, and then leaned his head against the door. He had a headache.   
  
~*~   
  
“In a month, Fenris, you’ll have a match,” Danarius said, not looking up from where he sat writing at his desk. “It’s been nearly two months as it is, and that is far too long for my liking.”   
  
“Yes, Master.”   
  
“Your new healer. He’s adequate?”   
  
Fenris nodded. In the past few weeks, Anders had healed him several times. Now that he was back in form, Danarius used his connection to a local ludus to help him train against multiple opponents. It was a long standing agreement between the two. In exchange for not pitting his gladiators against Fenris in the arena, the lanista allowed Danarius to send Fenris there, to use his facilities and men to improve. Those sessions often left him bruised and cut, or with strained muscles, and Fenris sought out Anders’s talents after returning to the estate.   
  
Anders was a far better mage than Claudius had been, Fenris had rapidly come to realize. His bragging may not have been misplaced pride. With little effort, he molded his healing magic into abused and torn flesh and muscle, and the experience actually felt pleasant, unlike the healing of Claudius that had left him feeling tired and still sore after particularly grueling injuries.   
  
It was in his mind to ask Brandr to teach the mage how to give massages. He had a feeling the two techniques combined would be an exquisite experience.   
  
“He serves his purpose,” he said aloud to his master.   
  
“Good,” Danarius grunted. “I am glad to hear that. Once this match is over, there are plans to be made, and the mage means that we’re ready to proceed.”   
  
Fenris wanted to ask what plans Danarius had in mind, but the magister volunteered no more information. He merely waved his hand, and Fenris bowed and backed out of the room. Dismissed, like any other slave Danarius was done with. Fenris’s lip curled, but he didn’t let it distract him.   
  
He had a match to prepare for.


End file.
